


Darksome Night and Shining Moon

by Z A Dusk (snakeandmoon)



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Crowley is Good With Kids (Good Omens), Fluff, Found Family, Lower Tadfield (Good Omens), M/M, Magic, Other, Post-Canon, Rituals, Slice of Life, Village fete, Village life, Warm and Fuzzy Feelings, and crowley is concerned about it, and you can't convince me otherwise, aziraphale and tracy stayed friends, in which aziraphale summons other deities, madame tracy is a witch, the author apologises to deities and their followers everywhere for any errors, the entire cosmology here is pretty much my HC, witchery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-06
Updated: 2020-02-06
Packaged: 2021-02-28 07:20:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,891
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22579987
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/snakeandmoon/pseuds/Z%20A%20Dusk
Summary: In which Anathema invites Crowley and Aziraphale to Tadfield, Aziraphale agrees to help with a summoning, Crowley isn't having any of it, and Madame Tracy learns some truths about herself.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens), Sergeant Shadwell/Madame Tracy (Good Omens)
Comments: 20
Kudos: 131





	Darksome Night and Shining Moon

**Author's Note:**

  * For [tehren](https://archiveofourown.org/users/tehren/gifts).



> I know in the book Madame Tracy's name isn't Tracy, but it isn't explictly mentioned in the show, and in my head, Tracy is her name. 
> 
> The rituals / cosmology are pretty eclectic and not based on any one tradition.
> 
> Thanks forever to [Miraworos](https://archiveofourown.org/users/miraworos) for the amazing beta work!

It was an odd invitation, and no mistake, but Tracy was happy to pop up to Tadfield for a night or two. She liked that young Anathema, and you couldn’t go wrong with a nice day out. Besides, she’d like to see how young Newt was getting along. 

“Nae good’ll come of fraternizing wi witches.” Shadwell had muttered, but there’d been a twinkle in his eye and a definite hint of a smile as Tracy kissed his cheek and told him there was enough food in the fridge for a couple of nights.

She set off with a spring in her step. She’d call an Uber to get her to East Putney Station to catch the train up to Tadfield, but she fancied a bit of fresh air first after spending the last two days job hunting online. She had enough put aside to tide her over now she’d retired, but she was a little worried about what would happen after they moved to the country. The money wouldn’t last forever, and she wasn’t sure how far she’d get on a CV that read “retired Jezebel and ghost-raiser.” Still, you could run any sort of business online these days. She was confident she’d think of something. 

But those were concerns for another day. Today was ripe for the taking, and Tracy intended to enjoy her excursion. She walked faster as the city came to life around her, the bright rays of summer morning sun promising something new and exciting ahead.

* * *

“Tadfield, angel, really?”

Crowley had seen enough of Tadfield to last him the next six thousand years, but Aziraphale had been adamant that they go, and when had Crowley ever been able to refuse his angel?

“Anathema invited us.” The angel retrieved his tartan biscuit tin and helped himself to shortbread. “It would be rude not to go. She did help stop Armageddon, after all, and we did accidentally steal an extremely precious book from her and then damage it with fire.”

Crowley groaned in frustration and closed his eyes, ignoring Aziraphale’s horrified squeak. As if the Bentley would dream of veering off the road.

“You could have stayed in London,” the angel said primly. “I am capable of travelling by train, you know. If I can cope with camels, horses, and your driving, a train should be simplicity itself.”

Crowley wasn’t going to dignify that with a response. As if he’d choose to stay in London when Aziraphale was going elsewhere. 

“What’s she want us there for? Why does she think two occult - ethereal - beings would be interested in a little village fete?”

“We’ll find out when we get there, dear.”

With a sigh, Crowley put his foot down and headed for Tadfield, hoping that getting there faster would mean he’d get to leave sooner.

* * *

Tracy took her time strolling through the village. She passed by those sweet children from the airfield, snacking on chocolate bars and ribbing each other about the relative possibility of Bigfoot existing versus UFOs being real. Adam seemed to be postulating that as he’d once ruled the world, and he believed in Bigfoot, then Bigfoot must logically be real. Pepper countered that none of them had seen Bigfoot, but they’d met Newt, who’d seen a UFO, and that was close enough. Brian was wondering whether they ought to stock up on crisps before heading to Hogback wood. The slightly built one, Wensleydale, seemed subdued. Tracy almost stopped to ask why, but she remembered herself at that age. She wouldn’t have wanted a random adult poking their nose into her business. With a warm smile and a quick wave, she left them to their adventures and walked up the lane to Jasmine Cottage.

It was lucky really, Tracy thought, that Jasmine Cottage had come up for sale just as Anathema and Newt had decided to stay in Tadfield. Even luckier that that nice Mr. Aziraphale just happened to hear of its upcoming sale, and tipped them the wink. 

He’d been a strange one. Tracy still woke up sometimes, staring into the dark and trying to get her heart rate back to normal. She knew he wouldn’t hurt her. She’d felt safe with him. But at the same time being possessed by him had made her feel like a tiny sapling standing under a universe-sized lightning strike. She liked him though. Well, apart from the bit about being willing to shoot children. They’d had words about that a few times since, when he dropped by her flat for their monthly tea date. Still, she was glad he’d kept in touch. Would have felt strange to go back to her normal life as if nothing had happened, not hearing from him or that nice (even if he denied it) Mr Crowley again.

* * *

Crowley had to admit bicycle-girl’s powers made her an excellent host. The perfect drink was waiting for each of them when they arrived. Assam for Crowley, who liked his tea strong enough to stand up for itself in a fight, a delicate Lady Grey for the angel, and a proper Yorkshire tea for Madame Tracy. Or just Tracy these days, apparently. Crowly idly wondered if she had the smallest inkling what a precious cargo she’d born. Probably not. Most humans didn’t think like that. And certainly no humans had spent 6000 years pining for the angel who was now passing round a plate of chocolate biscuits and enquiring most politely after everyone’s health.

“C’mon then, dear,” Tracy said to Anathema. “No one invites an angel, a demon, and a psychic to tea just because they need help making jam for the village fete.”

“Sounds like the start of a terrible joke,” Crowley murmured in Aziraphale’s ear, causing the angel to huff out a breath and wave him away as he tried to hide his laugh behind his teacup.

“I was serious about the jam. Mrs Young volunteered me for it, and being new here, it only seemed polite to say yes.”

“And?”

Crowley grinned to himself. He was liking Tracy more and more.

“My mom sent me this.” Anathema picked up a brown manila envelope and pulled out a single sheet of parchment. “Instructions for a blessing ritual the Devices have apparently been doing for years when they move into their first home. It needs four people. According to the instructions, we summon one of the deities our family honours, and ask for their blessing on the house.”

She looked from Newt to Tracy, then quickly at Aziraphale, before glancing back at the paper. Crowley opened his mouth to say no, was she actually insensible, of course neither of them would even consider summoning anything. 

Before he could speak, Aziraphale held out his hand for the parchment, saying “which deity?” as if he was enquiring what kind of jam Anathema needed help making. 

Stunned into silence, Crowley spent the rest of the gathering half-heartedly stirring his tea, making non-committal noises, and studiously ignoring Azirphale’s concerned glances as the others chattered about the ritual. Newt wanted to be sure it was safe, being that the last Device family tradition he’d been involved with had concerned the end of the world. Anathema reassured him everything would be fine, and Crowley couldn’t help smirking at Newt’s “I’ll believe it when I see it” look. Tracy was worried that she wasn’t experienced enough, but seemed excited about being part of it, especially when Anathema told her no experience was necessary. Aziraphale sat quietly, but nodded at the right moments and seemed quite unconcerned by the whole thing, much to Crowley’s irritation. They would need serious words when they got out of there.

By the time they’d all finished making plans for both the ritual and the fete, the sky outside was streaked with dusky lilac and burnt orange. Crowley suffered through the polite goodbyes, then took Aziraphale’s elbow and steered them both towards their B&B.

* * *

Jasmine Cottage was ever so quaint. Tracy felt like she ought to be carrying a candle upstairs to bed. After Mr Crowley and Mr Aziraphale had gone back to their B&B, Newt had cooked the three of them a delicious supper of lamb, roast potatoes, and green beans with rich mushroom gravy. Anathema had asked her a ton of questions about jam making and they’d laughed till they cried when it transpired that Anathema didn’t even know it needed to set, and hadn’t left nearly enough time to make it. Still, the fete lasted three days, so they should just about manage to rustle something up for the third day. 

They’d agreed that a nice cinnamon-scented summer fruits jam, and a tarter rhubarb with ginger, were in order. They gossiped for a while about village politics – Tracy had grown up in a small village in Dorset, so she knew how one unexpected stall at the village market could cause scandal for weeks.

After Newt excused himself to go up to bed, Tracy thought it polite to go up the old wooden hill herself. But Anathema brightly asked, “More tea? I found a lovely spiced orange in the village shop today,” and Tracy gratefully accepted. The more time she spent with Anathema, the more she liked her. She said what she meant and meant what she said, and she clearly didn’t let anyone push her around. 

“So,” Anathema wrapped her slender fingers around the blue and white striped cup and fixed Tracy with a look that could likely freeze milk at twenty paces. “What’s with all the pretend psychic rubbish, when we both know you have real power?”

Tracy laughed and shook her head.

“Get on with you. It’s like I said to that Mr Shadwell of mine, I’m not much of a witch.”

“Yeah, I’m going to beg to differ.” Anathema stood up and offered Tracy her hand. “Come with me.”

Tracy had read a fair few books, not to mention having a lounge full to bursting with psychic paraphernalia, but nothing had prepared her for the beauty of the sacred space Anathema had built in the attic of Jasmine Cottage. Trailing fairy lights and solid orange salt lamps lent a warm, inviting glow to the tiny stone room. Bunches of fresh roses scented the air, and Tracy caught an undertone of incense. The altar was a simple table, dressed with thick, stately candles, a solid brass incense holder, and an intricately carved earthenware dish. A peaceful goddess statue with a moon on her brow and a geode of glittering amethyst for a torso had pride of place.

“Sit.”

Anathema gestured to the ornate circular sigil chalked on the floor, handing Tracy a purple embroidered cushion, which she took carefully. As she sat down, she thought that not so very long ago, she wouldn’t have looked out of place here in her “psychic” finery. But she’d have felt it. She loved the trappings of her psychic work, but deep down she knew her results were hit and miss at best. It brought comfort, and sometimes a snippet of genuine truth popped out and amazed both medium and audience alike, but it was no more real than the fantasy she constructed for her other clients. Anathema sat down opposite her in a rustle of teal silk and black lace.

“Someone made you feel stupid for your belief in unseen things. You say it doesn’t bother you – you’re about to tell me now it was just a silly thing years ago – but I can see where your aura has contracted because of it. Like thunderclouds among the rest of the colours.”

Tracy’s eyes widened. Were it not for Mr Aziraphale bringing through Ron Omerod so clearly, this would have been the most genuinely psychic thing to ever happen to her. Suddenly she was fourteen years old again, reading a book on Wicca in her bedroom where she’d set up a tiny altar with a rose quartz on it, along with a shell she’d found on the nearby beach, a piece of seaglass, and a little dish of water. Her mother, whose idea of fun was giving the floors an extra vigorous scrub so she could complain even more loudly about Tracy and her siblings walking on them, was telling her in no uncertain terms that an airhead like her would never amount to anything. Who did she think she was, lady muck, sitting there reading that poppycock while her mother took care of everyone? The precious book, a birthday present from a friend, had been torn from her hands and thrown in the nearby rubbish bin.

Tracy knew then she was silly for thinking she could be anything but ordinary.

Anathema was watching her coolly, but there was kindness in those big dark eyes, too. She reached out her hands, palms up, and nodded for Tracy to place her hands in them. She did so.

“Just follow my lead.” Anathema took a few deep, slow breaths, then started a low chant. “We are the flow, we are the ebb, we are the weaver, we are the web ...”

Tracy joined in, a little self-consciously at first, then with more feeling as the words rose and fell in the quiet room. As their voices mingled, she could have sworn she heard ancient firelit drumbeats pounding in the air. Suddenly she became aware of something growing inside her – a golden light that filled her core and radiated through her body. She was a tree, rooted in the earth but reaching for heaven. She was the rushing river and the salmon leaping in it. She was her own ancestor, dancing in ecstasy around a fire. Sparks flew in her veins and her hands grew so hot she could feel the heat radiating onto her legs.

“We are the witches back from the dead!” Anathema ended the chant like she was making a declaration before all creation.

Tracy opened her eyes and smiled.

* * *

“Angel, are you actually insane?”

Crowley had often suspected that 6000 years of life on earth with Heaven breathing down his neck had left Aziraphale slightly unbalanced, but now he was quite sure of it.

“You want to … summon … a deity?”

Aziraphale gave the beleaguered sigh of one who can’t believe he has to explain something so simple, and sat down on the edge of the bed. The previous night he’d taken off his jacket and rolled up his shirt sleeves far too quickly for Crowley to remember his ire, and not another word about the summoning had been said. But now Aziraphale was planning to go back up to Jasmine Cottage for “a nice chat,” and Crowley was having none of it.

“I fail to see why this is so shocking, Crowley. I did have a summoning circle in my bookshop, after all.”

“To talk to Her or Her representatives. Not to call up random two-bit gods!”

“You aren’t curious?”

“No! C’mon, angel. This is a monumentally stupid idea.”

“I don’t see how, Crowley.” The angel responded self-righteously, getting up and switching on the little travel kettle. He pursed his lips as he surveyed the selection of tiny instant tea and coffee packets.

“You’d find much better quality tea back in London” Crowley muttered, which earned him an exasperated look as Aziraphale miracled himself some decent Earl Grey.

“Ah, thank you dear. As I was saying, this is hardly high risk work. I recognise the name of the deity to be invoked – Coventina. She’s a Romano-British Goddess of wells and springs. I believe there’s a shrine dedicated to her beside Hadrian’s wall. She’s hardly Kali or The Morrigan.”

Something dark and unpleasant shot down Crowley’s spine. Something far too reminiscent of falling for his liking.

“You think it’s ok to just … go and do this … for some random human? Aren’t you concerned about consequences?”

“I haven’t suffered any negative consequences yet.”

Crowley spluttered his tea, putting the cup down with more force than necessary, and stared at the angel.

“You’ve … invoked … Coventina … before?”

“Well no, not Coventina personally. But I’ve had several very nice chats with Brigid, and Ganesh is easy company. Hecate is an interesting character, though I wouldn’t want to catch her on the wrong night.”

“How could you?!” Crowley stood up fast enough to knock the chair over with a clatter. “Didn’t you stop and think about the trouble you could get in? That someone might have noticed, oh I don’t know, that you were invoking a deity other than the one that made you, the earth, and everything on it?!”

“Oh, as if they would bother checking about that. Crowley dear, it wouldn’t occur to Her that one of her angels might talk to someone else.”

The angel was so calm. His breathing was even. His eyes were dilated the normal amount. He was talking as if they were discussing where to eat that night. Crowley was unconsciously clawing at the desk, a fact of which he became cogent when he caught Aziraphale’s reproachful look at the scarred wood.

“Crowley, darling, I did carry out some very careful research each time. I know you sometimes think me silly, but I wasn’t reckless.”

“No, you weren’t.” Crowley crossed the room and wrestled his coat from the hook as if he fully intended to defeat it. “You were disloyal.”

“Well that’s rich!”

Aziraphale was standing now, too, staring at him as if he barely knew him. Crowley got it. He barely knew himself in that moment. He could feel himself shaking with so many emotions that he had no hope of sorting and naming them. He had to get out of there before they escaped in an outburst that couldn’t end well for either of them.

“Look, angel, everything’s fine between us, alright? I love you just the same as before. But I really gotta clear my head about this.”

Then he was gone, trying not to think too hard about his angel standing confused and alone in a stranger’s house.

* * *

Aziraphale stood there for goodness knew how long, staring at the door. 

How could Crowley feel such loyalty to a God that had thrown him out for asking questions?

Perhaps it wasn’t altogether unexpected, though. More than once since they started spending more time together, Aziraphale had caught Crowley muttering in God’s general direction, albeit with an insouciance and anger that would likely have gotten him cast out, if he hadn’t already fallen. 

Admittedly, Aziraphale had felt guilty the very first time he’d summoned another deity, back in the days of King Arthur. The daughter of one of the other Knights of the Table Round was dying of consumption. It had been made clear to him by Head Office that his penchant for saving sick humans wasn’t to be borne. He had to “toughen up” and learn to let them die. It had hurt his heart not to help her. When she awoke and saw him in her room, where he’d been trying to at least ease her pain, she’d grabbed his hand and begged him to help her contact the guardian of her family; a minor deity who watched over the village. How could he refuse the last wish of a dying girl?

Aziraphale reasoned that as God created the universe and everything in it, ergo all other deities were part of her creation, too. 

It had become a sort of habit after. He didn’t do it every week, or for that matter every year. Just sometimes he would get an itch inside him, a restlessness that couldn’t be slaked any other way. He knew, of course, that they were technically younger than him. Like the four horseman, they came from the minds of man. But years of worship had leant them strength and power, and their presences were comforting to him. Some, like Brigid, showed him visions he could see as clearly as the waking world, while others, like Iduna, were more like a whisper in his mind and heart.

He tried not to look too deeply at why he did it. It was easy enough to pretend that as an ethereal being, it was good for him to understand all the energies of the universe and how they fit together. It was practically research. After all, if he was to be living among humans, it was helpful to know as much about their rituals as possible.

It was only in the dark, quiet moments after a summoning (for he always did them late at night), that the truth insisted on being known, shimmering in the air like sage smoke, and cleansing him of the lies he told himself.

He was searching for acceptance from something old and eldritch. He yearned to feel that the vast universe contained beings not unlike the God who created him, but with infinitely kinder hearts. He couldn’t admit, even to himself, that what he was really searching for was family. A place where he belonged and wasn’t constantly made to feel like a vaguely exhausting disappointment. And if calling them brought him peace, how could he refuse to share that with his young witch friend? If only Crowley could understand. 

* * *

Crowley felt utterly wretched at leaving Aziraphale the way he had, but it had been necessary. If he’d stayed a moment longer, Aziraphale would have started asking questions about his outburst. He’d be primly superior about it at first, of course. Demanding how dare Crowley accuse him of such a thing, and likely making some excuse about understanding humans better by exploring their cosmology. Which, fine, Crowley could cope with a certain amount of self righteousness from the angel. He’d had six thousand years of practice at it, after all. What he couldn’t cope with was what might happen after. If his voice started to break as he confessed that he still loved the God who’d made him and cast him aside. If tears started to leak from his eyes as he admitted that he was still consumed with anger and betrayal and confusion. 

Aziraphale would look at him with such blessed compassion. And probably try to say exactly the right thing and end up saying exactly the wrong one. He might remind him that he’d been an angel, which Crowley vastly preferred not to remember. He was settled as he was, after this long. A reminder of his star-bright midnight blue eyes and long golden hair would hardly serve anything. He might try and tell him he was perfect as he was, at which point Crowley would have no recourse but snark.

He was wondering whether he should just turn back rather than leave Aziraphale to fret, when the sight of something utterly bizarre stopped him. Right there, in the street outside the quaint little village shop with its display of Tadfield postcards, was one of the Them. The little fellow. Crowley had only met the kids once, at the near-ending of the world, but even he knew that one slice of the Them without the other three pieces of the pie was a very strange phenomenon indeed. Oh bless it. He couldn’t very well walk past. The kid looked so bloody lost.

“Hey, friend of the Antichrist. What’s your name again?”

The boy looked up from the liquorice lace that he’d been thoughtfully nibbling, and swallowed.

“It’s Wensleydale, actually. I know you. You told your friend to shoot Adam.”

There was a bit of steel behind those blue eyes, and suddenly Crowley liked this kid.

“Yes, I did. That’s the sort of things demons do.” He gave a sharp-toothed grin and an utterly evil eyebrow waggle, and Wensleydale laughed. “And where’s the antichrist now then? And the other two – the opinionated one and the grimy one?”

Wensleydale gave an almost imperceptible shrug. “Getting ready for the fete later.”

“And you’re not with them because ….?”

“Because I’m no good at gymnastics.”

Crowley tried to process this non-sequitur and gave it up as lost.

“You’re gonna have to explain a bit more, kid.”

“Brian wanted to do a tumbling act after we saw one when we went to watch them set up the circus at Norton last year. But it’s alright for Pepper and Adam, actually, because they’re good at handstands and going head over heels. Brian’s strong enough to lift Pepper up or help Adam. But I’m ...”

He didn’t need to finish. He didn’t have the knack for amateur acrobatics, nor the strength to lift someone else.

“Sounds bloody dangerous to me,” Crowley said. “What’re you good at, then?”

Wensleydale furrowed his brow as if carefully considering which sandwich filling to choose.

“Well, I am rather good at reading. My teacher says I read more grown-up books than any of his other pupils. And I like maths.”

“That’s school stuff. What about outside of school?”

“I like doing magic tricks.”

Of course he did. Crowley pinched the bridge of his nose.

“I don’t get it, kid. Why not just change the act to something you can all do?”

The Them were obviously tight. Crowley was surprised the other three had wilfully left Wensleydale out.

“Ah, well. You see, it’s because of my mother and father. They don’t like …. I’m not sure what they don’t like.” 

Crowley knew. They didn’t like the strange aura of danger that had accompanied their son’s trip to the airfield, that somehow centered around the seemingly blameless and charming curly-haired ringleader of their little gang. They wanted to keep him away from the others. 

Crowley felt suddenly sad. It was hard enough these days finding people you fit in with, who accepted you, idiosyncrasies and all. Crowley ought to know. Well, what the heaven. No one was keeping score any more. He looked down at Wensleydale.

“I’ve got an idea.”

* * *

It was like riding a bike, Tracy thought, as she adjusted the lacy sleeves on her top. It had been a struggle to find something suitably esoteric looking that fit her, being that Anathema was a tiny slender thing, but they’d made it work. Tracy secretly thought the whole affair was a bit of a dodgy idea, but she supposed if it really went belly up she could give people their donations back.

“You’ll do great.”

Anathema told her with a reassuring pat on the shoulder as she settled Tracy at the velvet-draped table and placed a crisp new Glastonbury-themed tarot on the table in front of her beside a sign up sheet for readings. She’d had the deck for years but never opened it, she’d said. She’d always known it was for someone else.

“Why do you want me to do it now, though, love?” Tracy had asked the younger woman. “I could practice at home.”

“Because I want to see it for myself when you walk away from Tadfield knowing you’re for real.”

“Mr Shadwell won’t like it if I turn out to be a real witch,” Tracy had laughed, half joking.

“Well,” Anathema had grinned, with that intractable twinkle in her eye. “Just tell him you’ll turn him into a toad.”

Tracy had laughed too, but she was reassured. Anathema’s smile meant that her sense of the situation matched Tracy’s own. The funny old fellow would be alright, in the end. He’d been more changed by what he’d seen at the airbase than he would ever admit.

The fete picked up slowly. The village looked gorgeous, like a picture on a chocolate box, with bunting fluttering over the street. Residents had made an extra effort with their gardens, adding windmills and funny scarecrows. The pub was open, the cafe was offering cream teas, and the whole of Tadfield was in a festive mood. They were a friendly bunch for the most part. Save for that R P Tyler, who was glowering at the festivities and especially at Tracy, Anathema, and the young man who had a reiki healing and crystal table. Tracy would have to keep him away from Shadwell when they moved here, in case the crotchety old fellow gave her witchfinder extra funny ideas.

When they moved here.

Funny how sometimes a thought’s out before you know it’s coming.

Smiling, Tracy settled back to wait for her first customers. Only seconds later, a cup of tea, brewed just how she liked it, appeared at her elbow.

“Dear lady, might I have a word with you?”

She turned in her seat to see Mr Aziraphale sitting in a folding chair by her side, that she was quite certain hadn’t been there before. He smiled at her, and she had that same strange sensation she always got from his smile. It was an odd mix of reassurance and having her mind prised so far open that someone could probably pour half the knowledge of the universe in, if it wouldn’t risk frying her brain. 

“Of course, dear. How can I help?”

“Well you see, during the time we were – sharing a home as it were – you struck me as a practical sort. Good with matters of the heart, you know. Upstanding.”

Tracy wasn’t entirely sure how he got that from arriving in the middle of a fake séance, but he seemed certain, so she nodded for him to go on.

“I’m afraid I’ve rather made a mess of things,” he paused and looked like he was about to talk around the issue for ten minutes. 

But Tracy had experienced enough of that during their body sharing experience that she was able to recognize it for what it was. 

“Out with it, Mr Aziraphale” she said, firmly but kindly. “I’d like to help you before my first customers arrive.”

The angel (angel – it still made her head spin to think she was having a conversation with an actual angel) sighed, hesitated again, but then started talking and didn’t stop until the whole story was out. Tracy listened patiently, sipping her tea and occasionally patting the back of his hand reassuringly. When he’d finished, she set her tea down and smiled at him.

“Sounds like you poked a few of his sore spots, love. You’re not responsible for his relationship to God. Think about it, Mr Aziraphale. Last time he was disloyal to God it ended badly. Maybe he’s worried you’ll fall, too?”

Mr Aziraphale’s eyes widened and he opened his mouth as if to speak, then shut it again. A few long moments later, he quietly said “Oh. Thank you dear lady. Yes, quite. Good luck with the fete.”

Then he was gone.

* * *

When did kids get so smart? Crowley had spent the afternoon with Wensleydale working on their plan. When everything was about in place, the blonde-haired boy had looked at him perfectly seriously and said, “Mr Crowley, where’s your friend?” 

Crowley had mumbled some excuse, but Wensleydale had looked him right in the eye and enquired outright if they’d had a fight. Crowley muttered “eh” and gave a half-shrug, then suggested they focus on the task at hand.

“I fight with my friends sometimes, actually.” Wensleydale told him. “Mostly because they want to do things one way, and I want to do them a different way. We always forget it quickly, though. It’s not nice being in a fight. It’s much better to be together and feel good.”

Crowley couldn’t help thinking about the simple wisdom of that.

The Them had agreed to Crowley’s plan eagerly. Brian had offered a half-hearted, “won’t his mummy and daddy be cross?” But as far as protests went, it was about as convincing as Aziraphale trying to say that, no, of course he didn’t need another rare book, what could he possibly want with that. 

Crowley kept a sharp eye out for Mr and Mrs Wensleydale, and, on spotting them, casually draped himself into the seat beside them for the kids’ talent show. Wensleydale had been reluctant to change his act without talking to his parents first. 

“C’mon, kid,” Crowley had said. “You faced down the four horseman of the apocalypse. You can face the village fete and your parents.”

The boy had wavered a bit. He was an obedient lad. But his longing to be with the rest of the gang had won out. He only needed a little nudge. As to disobeying his parents, well, it’d work out alright. Crowley was going to make sure the ends justified the means.

Wensleydale was considerably better at magic than Aziraphale, thank Someone. He was a bright boy and hadn’t taken long to pick up a few simple sleight-of-hand tricks (find the hidden card, pass a coin through glass, that kind of thing). It wasn’t showy – they’d only had a couple of hours – but the way showing off his tricks made him beam with pride made up for it. Add in the three very willing tumbling assistants, including a former antichrist who looked stunned when Wensleydale plucked a butterfly from behind his ear (ok that had taken a small demonic miracle), and the effect was about as heartwarming as Crowley had hoped it would be.

When everyone stood up to applaud, Crowley could feel a little shock and displeasure radiating from his left. After all, Wensleydale was the kind of boy who always arrived home promptly for lunch and cleaned his room when asked. 

Turning to Mr Wensleydale, he said calmly, “Amazing, isn’t it, how hanging around the right people can increase your confidence? I fell in with the wrong crowd once. That kid’s lucky to have such good friends.”

He left, but the warm glow of parental pride, and a renewed sense of affection towards their son’s friends, followed him all the way out the door and down to the village store.

* * *

Aziraphale was pacing around their B&B room, fiddling with the flowers in the vase, rearranging the little sachets of coffee and sugar, and plumping the bed pillows every ten minutes. Anathema had told him to be at Jasmine Cottage at 7:00 for the ritual, which would be followed by supper.

It was 6:40 and Crowley wasn’t there. He could have searched for him, but Crowley had specifically requested time alone. Aziraphale had left the fete after talking to Tracy and spent a tense afternoon in their room, drinking tea made with cheap teabags and nibbling half heartedly on some shortbread.

He wouldn’t do the ritual if it bothered Crowley that much. He hated to let Anathema down, but she’d figure something out, and Crowley mattered far more. Even if Aziraphale couldn’t see the fuss, if Crowley was that uncomfortable he wouldn’t do it, and that was an end to it. But, oh, he did just want to know one way or the other; if Crowley still insisted on a hard no, then Aziraphale wanted to inform Anathema, so she could make alternative arrangements. She might have to change the date, and then Tracy might not be able to stay … Heavens, what a conundrum.

So it was with no small relief that Aziraphale greeted Crowley when he strode through the door.

“Crowley, darling, I’ve been thinking and -”

Before he could finish the sentence, Crowley thrust four thick white pillar candles and a tub of sea salt into his hands.

“Village store doesn’t exactly carry ritual supplies, but I thought you’d at least need candles and salt.”

Aziraphale opened his mouth to say Anathema most likely had everything she needed for the ritual, then quickly shut it again. Carefully placing the peace offerings on the bed, he closed the distance between them and cupped Crowley’s cheek in his hand.

“Darling mine, if it disturbs you I simply shan’t do it. I had plenty of time to think while you were gone and honestly, Crowley, I just wanted to ...”

“Learn about human ways?”

Aziraphale nearly availed himself of the convenient excuse offered, but then took a deep breath and told Crowley the truth “I wanted to feel less alone, Crowley. I was one of two oldest beings on earth, and I knew that the only other beings remotely like me, including my own creator, were vaguely disappointed in me. I thought perhaps if I found other .. well, not friends exactly … compatriots who were older and bigger than humans I would feel like I belonged. Or at least, I would feel less rejected. I stopped needing that as the Arrangement went on and I realised that, of course, I’d never been alone, and I’d always been accepted. I don’t need it anymore. Nevertheless, I’m not afraid to be part of the ritual. I have some skill in that area, and all my reading suggests Coventina is a perfectly gentle and lovely Goddess. But none of that matters next to your concerns. Crowley, I … I’m not sure it’s possible to be disloyal to God. Isn’t loyalty earned? Didn’t She … didn’t She lose the right to yours when She made you fall?”

Crowley didn’t answer, and Aziraphale bit his babbling tongue. When would he learn to keep his opinions to himself when prudent? But Crowley was looking at him with something that wasn’t quite relief yet, but was getting there.

“I guess you have a point. I was just so afraid you’d … you know.”

“Fall?” Aziraphale said softly, and Crowley nodded.

“Still am a little, but I understand you better now. And you’re right … about me. And her.” He sighed heavily, shaking his head with a wry smile. “Alright, if it means that much to you. I’ll come and watch. But you’ll never hear the end of it if it all goes tits up.”

Aziraphale reached out and squeezed the demon’s hand. After a moment, Crowley squeezed back.

“C’mon then, angel. Grab your candles. Deities tend to frown on tardiness.”

* * *

Tracy couldn’t remember ever feeling as free and at peace as she did sprinkling salt around the perimeter of the circle and then carefully accepting a lighted pillar candle from Anathema, guarding the fragile light as the younger witch chanted softly. Newt looked a little confused but absolutely game to be part of things, while that nice Mr Aziraphale sat calmly with a smile on his face, radiating love. Even Mr Crowley had shown up. He didn’t say much, just sprawled on a chair in the corner, but he kept giving Mr Aziraphale a look that Tracy had seen on enough faces over the years to know it was only a matter of time before church bells were ringing. Well, maybe not church bells. Whatever their kind of beings did. Tracy looked down at the flickering flame and smiled to herself. Turned out she was quite the witch after all. 

* * *

Crowley had stuffed all his sarcasm in a box and sat on it. This clearly meant a lot to bicycle-girl, and, for as much as they sparred, he liked her. He felt an unexpected rush of fear when she “cast the circle,” a flashback to Her flaming eyes the second before he fell. But then the room was suffused with something as calm and soft as the waters of a sacred spring, and Crowley found himself unaccountably smiling. He caught the way Aziraphale smiled at Anathema and Tracy, and his heart stuttered. The angel was relaxed and at ease. Not questioning himself. Not twisting his hands with worry. Crowley bit the inside of his lip to keep from bursting into a huge grin. Maybe this being around people – otherworldly and human – wasn’t so bad after all. Sometimes.

* * *

Crowley insisted on stopping at the Wensleydale’s house on their way out of the village. Aziraphale was nonplussed, but thought it better not to question it. Sometimes, you just had to let Crowley do his own thing. He’d sprung out of the Bentley with a pile of books about magic tricks, and Aziraphale had watched in amazement as the door to the house opened, and Crowley greeted the Wensleydales with a smile. Mr and Mrs Wensleydale nodded sagely as if Crowley was the fount of all knowledge, and Aziraphale wondered what on earth he was saying to them. Then he handed the books to young Wensleydale, ruffled his hair affectionately, and bounded back to the Bentley.

A few minutes later, Crowley pulled over to the side of the road and stopped the car.

“What are you thinking?” he asked and Aziraphale flushed slightly, not realising his reverie was quite so obvious.

“C’mon,” Crowley continued when Aziraphale didn’t answer. The demon leaned over and brushed his lips carefully over the angel’s cheek. “I can tell when your mind is light years away.”

Aziraphale laughed at that and turned his head, their noses awkwardly colliding before he found a better angle and slotted his mouth against Crowley’s. When he drew back several minutes later, the demon’s eyes were bright.

“I was just thinking that I could imagine living in a cottage in a quiet country town. Maybe even here. Somewhere with a big garden and an observatory.”

Crowley’s breath caught. Did he mean …?

“And a heat lamp. In case one of the occupants decides to turn into a giant snake,” he added, laughing as Crowley nearly fell into his lap in his effort to wrap him in a joyful hug, holding him tight and kissing all over his face. 

“Oh, angel, yes, let’s do that.”

He’d wanted to belong for so many eons, Aziraphale thought as Crowley’s lips brushed against his temple, and yet he needn’t have looked beyond the wall of Eden, when he’d first stood beside the one to whom he would always belong.

**Author's Note:**

> Anathema's chant is from Kate West's Elements of Chants CD.


End file.
